


No Hanky Panky in the Golden Health Salon and Spa

by triedunture



Series: The Massage Saga [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Body Worship, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Face-Sitting, First Time, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), Massage, Mutual Pining, Other, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, Vaginal Fingering, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 00:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20787764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: "Crowley," Aziraphale said as he stood at the reception desk of the Golden Health Salon and Spa, "what on Earth do you think you're doing?"Crowley looked up at him, snake eyes hidden behind 'medicinal' sunglasses, then glanced down at the schedule in her hands. "Your three o'clock manicure, I suspect," she said, flicking her red hair over her shoulder, "followed by your 2-hour deep tissue."





	No Hanky Panky in the Golden Health Salon and Spa

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags! Just so you're aware, it's vulvas all the way down : )

"Crowley," Aziraphale said as he stood at the reception desk of the Golden Health Salon and Spa, "what on Earth do you think you're doing?"

Crowley looked up at him, snake eyes hidden behind 'medicinal' sunglasses, then glanced down at the schedule in her hands. "Your three o'clock manicure, I suspect," she said, flicking her red hair over her shoulder, "followed by your 2-hour deep tissue."

"No," said Aziraphale.

"Yes," Crowley countered quite reasonably. She pushed the release form across the desk. "Sign and date. Would you prefer lemon water or mint?"

Aziraphale ignored the form. "No, I mean, whatever mischief you are making here, I will not stand for it. This is a decent, family-owned operation, Crowley, and I won't allow you to tarnish it with your—" He swallowed, glancing at the sign tacked to the lobby wall that read _ No Hanky Panky Permitted_. "Tomfoolery," he finished weakly.

Crowley, to her credit, didn't so much as flinch. "No need to beat 'round the bush, angel." She indicated the completely empty waiting area with a wave of her hand. "Just us chickens here. And for your information, I am not going to ruin the sterling reputation of this business with my demonic curses, nor am I here to torment you in particular." She shrugged her fine-boned shoulders. "Just a weird coincidence, running into you like this."

Aziraphale frowned. He didn't detect the hint of sin that normally accompanied a lie, but then again, after their long and storied acquaintance, she could very well be pulling one over on him. Crowley's sins had become but wallpaper to Aziraphale. "A coincidence?" he echoed.

Crowley tossed her hair again—she had been straddling the line of 'she' and 'he' for most of the '90s, then around 2002 she took to wearing trousers cut tight and with only the most ornamental of pockets, bought an expensive pair of designer sunglasses from the Ladies section in Harrod's, grew her hair down to her shoulders, and started wearing earrings in both ears on occasion. Aziraphale, not wanting to assume, asked his old friend if these things signified anything that he should be aware of, and Crowley had answered that she rather fancied being more solidly womanish for a stretch, so Aziraphale, being (at least nominally) a gentleman, began to refer to her as such in his Heavenly reports, which Crowley expressed her appreciation for by sharing a rather tasty Bordeaux—and said, "Yeah."

Aziraphale hoped this was true. He rather liked this massage parlor. He made it a personal policy to patronize a different one every ten years or so to avoid any uncomfortable questions about how "you never seem to age, do you, Mr Fell?" but Golden Health was his favorite of the last century and he didn't wish to quit it any earlier than need be. They offered two types of flavored water, after all, and the location was only a half-block away from the bookshop. 

"Mint, please, my dear," he sighed as he at last signed the form.

Crowley further elucidated as they sat at the manicure table, she deftly maneuvering her thin fingers around Aziraphale's soft palms, working his nails to a high shine. There was only one other soul in the entire place, an older woman in a corner busy with a pile of implements that wanted sanitizing and towels that wanted folding. She nodded and smiled at Aziraphale's entrance but otherwise ignored them.

"There's this bloke," Crowley said as she buffed, "comes in every Wednesday at lunchtime. He works for the telephone company. Squared off or rounded?"

"Rounded, please."

Crowley lifted one elegant eyebrow at that, but filed a rounded edge without voicing her obvious opinion. "So this bloke," she continued, "he's been known to nod off, you know, in the middle of his rubdown, which suits my needs just fine. I reckon the key to a certain electrical closet will be on a ring in his trouser pocket. Won't take but a minute to make an impression, slip it back where it belongs; he won't ever know it was gone. The next bit would bore you, I'm sure, but rest easy. It's only London's mobile phone network that will suffer. Not you, and certainly not the Zhang family." 

"And Emily? My usual girl?" (Emily knew Aziraphale liked his fingernails rounded, and she never made a face about it.)

"Came to a sudden understanding that she should propose to the woman she's been mooning over for years. They've run off to the Orkneys together," Crowley drawled. She turned Aziraphale's hand this way and that before plucking a wicked looking instrument from her case and shoving at his cuticles without mercy. "I promise you, she is very happy."

"Well, I am happy for her," Aziraphale said, though it was impossible to hide his dejection. She had really been an excellent manicurist and her massages, more than passable.

"Luckily," Crowley worked Aziraphale's cuticles into submission, "Anna J. Crowley was available for immediate hire. I've got all my certifications and have had all my shots." She gave Aziraphale a look through her lashes. "Believe me, angel, I was as surprised as you were when I saw the name A.Z. Fell on the schedule for today. Thought you went to one of those posh places around Piccadilly for your monthly tune-up."

"Me? Go to a chain?" Aziraphale gasped. "Surely not. This suits me just fine. Oh, I say, not that one please," he said, alarmed, as Crowley picked up a bottle of canary-yellow polish. 

"No?" Crowley feigned surprise. "Clear it is, I suppose. Like always." She made the switch like a baccarat dealer. "No fun, you are."

Aziraphale drank his mint water with one hand while the other was occupied by Crowley, who lashed clear polish onto the nails with a swiftness and grace that even the revered Emily had never attained.

"You're very good at that," Aziraphale said. He tried to hide his surprise.

Crowley leveled a grin at him. "Told you. Certified." She finished his little finger and gestured for his other hand, which he gave her without hesitation. "Had plenty of practice doing my own, when the notion took me."

Aziraphale watched her, pale face a mask of concentration, hunched over his hands as she painted perfect stripes on each nail. He rather liked watching her. He'd always liked it. 

She was dressed all in black, as was usual, but her clothing was salaciously casual and unlayered, perhaps in deference to her new career at the salon. A thoroughly modern working girl, he supposed. Her yoga leggings and sporty, clinging wrap top, more Lycra than sense, allowed her to move sinuously. Aziraphale noticed she was wearing a small silver stud in one ear and, when she turned her head to reach for a bottle of lotion, he saw her other earring was a silver python that crawled up the curve of her ear. 

He looked down at their joined hands, thinking it would be safer to keep his gaze there, but it only served to tempt him with the sight of Crowley's fingers cradling his own. She wore no polish—the manicurists never did, which made sense when they were messing about with paint and acetone all day—but Crowley's hands were lovely all the same. Thin and quick with neat, clean (squared off) nails. When was the last time he'd felt the touch of her hand? He tried to remember. Ah yes, the war, the church, just the smallest brush of fingers as they stood in that rubble. 

This was much more pleasant; it lasted longer. Crowley's hands were warmer than one would expect. Smooth. Dry, but not rough. Aziraphale could almost pretend that their hands were clasped for reasons other than some silly manicure. Oh, how dangerous it was to dream. 

He cleared his throat to cover the tremble in his hand. "Well, I daresay that after this I should toddle off and let you get on with it."

"What do you mean?" Crowley did not look up from her work, starting on the second coat. "I've got you down for deep tissue after, don't I?"

"Yes, but." Aziraphale coughed up a laugh. "I don't expect you to actually see it through, my dear." Especially considering the most skin to skin contact they'd ever shared had been an accidental tangling of legs as they tripped over each other. In their defense, Rome had been burning so even the most graceful creature might have stumbled in the chaos.

Crowley's fiery head popped up. "Cancellations are to be made with no less than 24 hours' notice."

Aziraphale flushed hotly. "Well, circumstances being what they are—"

"And you talk about supporting the local independents," she kept on. "D'you have any idea what the rent is like on this place?" She capped the bottle with more force than was necessary and waved it about.

"Of course, but—"

Her eyes flashed even through the dark glasses. "I'd have to charge you full price either way."

"Oh, come now," Aziraphale sputtered. 

"Don't think you get some kind of 'friends and family' treatment," Crowley continued, effectively pummeling Aziraphale's poor heart into paste. "It's only my first week, you know. If I jeopardize my position the whole plan will be ruined."

"It's rather convoluted, isn't it, though? This plan of yours?" Aziraphale said in an attempt to change the subject. "I know you fancy yourself James Bond, my dear—" He paused, unsure if the comparison would be unwanted at the moment, but Crowley merely inclined her pretty head. Aziraphale relaxed. "But honestly. You could just—" He wiggled his fingers in demonstration. "If you truly needed to open a certain door."

Crowley's face pinched, offended at the suggestion. "You really know nothing of fun, do you, angel? Life's about more than—" She wiggled her fingers in turn.

"Is it?" Aziraphale asked with deep suspicion. It seemed to him that perhaps they were no longer talking about light burglary.

Crowley rose and stalked over to the massage room door, yanking it open with a huff. She jerked her head at the darkness within. "Just get on the damn table, will you?"

Aziraphale's nails, he wasn't surprised to find, were miraculously dry. He inspected them as he moved from his chair to the little room. Perhaps Crowley would be as talented in massage as she was in manicures. He was a bit curious to find out. More than curious, actually. Desperate was a better word.

"If you're certain," he said carefully.

Crowley cast a withering glance over the empty salon. The other employee had legged it, presumably to cover the reception desk. "Don't have much else on, do I?"

"I suppose not." Aziraphale slipped by her and stood in the dark room with its glowing salt lamp and various crystals lined up on recessed shelves. He suddenly felt unsure of his decision to act out this farce. Crowley clearly had no real inclination to do this for Aziraphale, did she? Businesslike, is how he would have described the manicure. Pleasant, but nothing more. Aziraphale wasn't certain he could face the same sort of touch from Crowley all over his body.

"You know the drill, don't you?" Crowley flicked a finger at his outfit. "Clothes off, face down, under the sheet."

"Yes." Aziraphale turned to look at her. A thin silhouette in the light of the doorway. She looked as lovely as she was terrifying. "I know."

"Right." Crowley dithered. "Well. Get cozy. Back in a minute." And she slammed the door.

Aziraphale shut his eyes, breath coming out in a deep sigh. Cozy. Right. Soon those quick, smooth, warm hands would be touching him all over. And Aziraphale would need to keep his wits about him. And his manners.

As he stripped out of his jacket and waistcoat, he wondered if Crowley—or Emily or any of the ladies who worked here, for that matter—had ever been forced to confront a lecherous customer. The sign in the lobby made Aziraphale think that something untoward must have happened at least once to necessitate such a warning, and he didn't like the thought that anyone might be put in such a distasteful situation. 

He resolved that he himself would not so much as consider anything untoward during this encounter. It simply would not do, slavering over Crowley's clever hands and warm skin. Certainly not the way one red curl of her hair fell across her brow. 

Aziraphale's Effort, to which he rarely paid any mind, made itself known with the tiniest flutter. 

Oh fuck, Aziraphale thought in despair. Great buggering fuck. 

A tap came at the door. "All set?" Crowley called. 

"Just—! One moment!" Aziraphale undressed in a panicked flurry, tossing his clothes in the most careless way on the chair placed in the corner for that purpose, then practically dove under the thin sheet on the massage table. He fit his hot face into the circular pillow and stared down at the shadowy floor. From some unseen music player came the sounds of waves and bird calls. Aziraphale listened to it in something of a daze and reminded himself that he was (ostensibly) a gentleman. Not a lech. His quim, which had not reached the same understanding, twitched traitorously. 

Crowley knocked again. "Ready now?" She sounded a little concerned.

"Right! Yes, come in," Aziraphale cried, embarrassed to have forgotten to say so earlier.

The door opened in a lemon slice of light, then shut again. Aziraphale kept his eyes on the floor, trying not to imagine what Crowley must look like as she moved about the tiny room, adjusting the air-con, propping a little bolster pillow under Aziraphale's ankles for comfort, opening bottles of fragrant oils, palms slicking together with squelching sounds. Aziraphale concentrated on very much not listening to that.

"Music okay?" Crowley asked. Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper. "Maybe you'd rather have some Brahms."

"No, it's lovely," Aziraphale assured her. "It's all very...lovely." 

He shut his eyes. What an ass I am, he groaned.

"Right. Fine, then."

Crowley at last leaned over Aziraphale and touched him through the thin sheet. The barest squeeze, feeling out the shape of his back, the muscles that formed his shoulders and held his spine. Then Crowley peeled back the sheet to bare Aziraphale to the waist, and Aziraphale's skin rippled with gooseflesh in anticipation.

"Cold?" Crowley whispered.

"What?" Aziraphale mumbled at the floor. 

"The air. Are you cold? I can turn up the heat."

"Ah, no. It's— I'll be fine, I'm sure. Once we, erm, get going." Aziraphale bit his tongue. At least his red face was hidden from view. Small blessings. 

Then Crowley's hands were on him, and Aziraphale wasn't sure what was a blessing and what was a curse.

She placed her palms above his shoulderblades and moved them down his back, a flowing touch that managed to be careful and strong at the same time. Her thumbs swept into all the pockets of Aziraphale's aches, rubbing, soothing, pressing them into smaller and smaller pieces until they fell away. Crowley found the knot in his left shoulder and worked at it with her hands, then the sharp point of her elbow, then the whole of her forearms until it melted into nothingness. Aziraphale couldn't contain his gasp of relief as it unwound.

"That'll be all those nights you spend hunched over your books," she said, a teasing smile in her voice. "You really shouldn't sit so long without moving."

"I'll bear that in mind," Aziraphale said, trying and failing to keep the quake out of his voice. Crowley had moved on to the back of his neck, kneading gently between thumb and forefinger. It felt divine. He'd never felt so...well cared for. 

"Pressure all right?" Crowley took both his shoulders in her hands and pressed into the meat of them. "Figure you might be able to take more than most."

"Oh yes," Aziraphale sighed. His body rocked with her ministrations. "Emily tries, but the poor girl doesn't have supernatural strength, you know." 

"Tried," Crowley corrected. "Past tense. She's gone for good, angel. Sorry." She didn't sound very sorry. 

He flushed again, remembering his usual, completely mundane massages and how different this was, what they were doing now. Crowley was touching him—her hands on his skin—and he was reacting rather badly. At least he didn't need to fret about the dead giveaway of a hard prick, he thought in a haze. That was one benefit to his particular Effort he'd never considered before, having chosen to manifest a cunt only because he thought it suited him, much the same way he thought his reading glasses were quite natty.

Now that he was so aware of his body, however, different worries flooded in. Wholly inadequate, the entire thing. He was little more than a pale pile of rolls on the table. He forced out a nervous laugh as Crowley's fingers danced into his lower back. 

"I'm sorry you were made to take me on," he said. "The others probably didn't care to handle me, I imagine. New girl gets all the jobs no one else wants, hm?"

"What do you mean?" Crowley's hands made reverent acquaintance with Aziraphale's spinal column. 

"Well, that is, I'm sure it isn't...the most pleasant task." He swallowed, then injected more cheer into his voice. "Gone are the days when this shape of mine was sought after. Now it seems everyone is required to have a whole pack of abs; I just have the one, and a lot of squishy flesh besides."

"Angel." Crowley's voice was sharp, and her hands glided away from Aziraphale's skin, leaving him bereft. "Are you being serious?"

Aziraphale lifted his head from the pillowed ring and saw Crowley standing tableside, fists on her narrow hips. Her glasses had been discarded, leaving her yellow eyes bare in the dim light.

"Yes?" he said, not knowing what else to say.

Crowley huffed, causing a stray lock of hair to flutter against her cheek. "That's absolute bollocks. Emily told all the girls before she left that you were an absolute dream." She ticked off her fingers. "Clean, nice-smelling, polite to a fault, a good tipper. Mandy was next in line for you, and I had to—" Here Crowley clammed her mouth shut.

Aziraphale squinted in the dark. Was that a blush? "Had to what?"

"Never mind that," Crowley said sharply. "Just worked out, didn't it?" She began massaging his shoulders again, this time with more vigor. "Head down. You're supposed to be relaxing, remember."

"Right, yes. Thank you." Aziraphale burrowed back into the hole and stayed there, his wide eyes darting along the dark floor. Could Crowley have actually _ requested _ him? No, surely the old serpent was only joking. She so loved to push Aziraphale's buttons. 

"Oh!" Aziraphale gasped as Crowley found a particular spot between his shoulderblades. "Oh my." He turned fairly liquid under the assured touch.

"Good?" Crowley asked, smug.

"Mmm. However did you get so talented at this, my dear? It's not as if you could practice on yourself like you did with manicures." Aziraphale bit down on a moan that threatened to spill obscenely from his lips.

"Took a correspondence course."

"Be serious!"

"Fine." Aziraphale could hear the eye roll. "I learned back in the '80s. Thought it would be—" She was quiet for a moment, the only sound in the room the slick slide of their skin. "Nice. Touching, I mean. Even a human, even for a bit."

"Nice?" Aziraphale frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand. I mean, this is very nice from where I'm laying," he added quickly, "but isn't the actual massaging, well—a lot of work?"

"Sure." She proved the point with a dexterous stroke of her forearms down Aziraphale's back. "Guess I just, I don't know. Missed it. Touching." Her fingertips dug into his skin. "Don't get a lot of that, not with my kind." Her voice was nearly a whisper. Aziraphale had to strain to hear.

"Not a lot of—contact, you mean?" he asked.

Crowley hummed in assent. She tugged the sheet back over Aziraphale's well-kneaded shoulders and drew up the bottom edge to bare his right leg. "Demons aren't really the hugging type. Not much for handshakes either. Or anything, really." Her hands worked over Aziraphale's stiff calf, reducing it to jelly in moments. "After awhile, it gets to be…I dunno, probably a lot like you and food, I suppose."

"Me?" Aziraphale squeaked. 

"Yeah, how you," her voice was even quieter, "crave it."

Aziraphale blinked in the darkness. "Oh. I see." 

"Don't _ need _ it, of course," Crowley said, rubbing his thigh. "Could survive, I mean. Just—" She stroked the twitching muscle until it calmed under her touch. "S'nice. Sometimes." 

"But don't you—?" Aziraphale thought hard. He himself touched humans fairly often. Handshakes as fellow collectors introduced themselves at the shop, tailors measuring him for suits, friendly jostles on a busy street, a light hand on an arm or elbow as Aziraphale leaned in to say something polite. The manicures, yes, and the regular massages. Did Crowley not have those things, or things like them? Perhaps demons were meant to be more solitary. He thought of the brush of their fingers on the handle of a heavy bag; a bomb had just gone off, but it didn't have anything on the explosion in Aziraphale's chest. "Don't we—?" he tried again.

Crowley snorted. "Don't we what? Touch?" Her hand crept up to the roundness of his buttock, thumbs digging into a tight spot. "Don't go fainting on me now, angel," she warned. "This bit is connected to the leg bit and I can't skimp on it." She kneaded at him. Perfunctory. Only business. "All right?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, of course, I know." Aziraphale wondered if at least half of the tension in his muscles wasn't from how he was currently holding himself desperately still. He was glad his face was hidden, at least; it made it easier to speak to Crowley when he wasn't staring into those piercing eyes. "We do, though. Touch, I mean."

"Well, sure, we are _ now_."

"No, I mean— Other times." He bit his lip. Oh, he sounded like such a silly schoolboy. "Perhaps. Haven't we?" Please, he wanted to say, tell me I'm not the only one who remembers. That moment in the rubble was so precious to me; was I the only one who kept it pressed like a dried flower in my heart?

Crowley's hands slowed on Aziraphale's flesh. "I, uh." She cleared her throat. "Last time was, oh, about 1978, '79?" 

Aziraphale frowned, his head making an abortive attempt to lift out of its pillow to stare at Crowley. "Really?"

"You probably don't recall. It wasn't a big thing." Crowley's hands came to a standstill atop Aziraphale's thigh. "I was growing out my fringe. Awful decade for hairstyles. We were walking in the park and the wind kept blowing it into my eyes and you—" She stopped, then seemed to shake herself, her hands galvanized back to work, fussing with the sheet, moving onto the other leg. "You reached over and tucked my hair behind my ear."

"Did I?" Aziraphale asked in amazement. 

"It was nothing," Crowley said. "Barely grazed my skin when you did it. I only remember because I— No one had ever done that for me before, is all."

That didn't seem possible. Aziraphale lay there in the dark, still as stone, muscles lax, a lovely ache building inside his body. A wave of tenderness swept over him, borne of the sudden realization that Crowley—flashy, beautiful, snapping Crowley—had cupped her hands protectively around the candle-flicker memory of Aziraphale's touch just as Aziraphale had for hers. How strange, how positively wonderful! He was full to the brim, overflowing with love for this demon of his, who was touching him now with such care and such—no, he didn't dare think it—oh, but he couldn't stop himself—devotion?

In the silence that had enveloped the little room, Crowley cleared her throat. "Feeling okay?" she asked as she rubbed her knuckles into the arch of Aziraphale's foot. "Is it too much?"

It certainly was, but Aziraphale could not find the words to say so. Instead he gave a little whimper and sank into the cushioned table, boneless, wanting, helpless to quell all he was feeling: hope and fondness and _ desire _, dear God, the desire. He felt himself getting wet—the empty clench of his quim waiting for something to fill it. Crowley's hands were smoothing up his leg to his hip, to his arse, so close and not close enough to where Aziraphale wanted her. 

"Angel?" Crowley whispered when Aziraphale still did not answer, and just the sound of her voice combined with her sure hands made Aziraphale _ gush_. 

A strangled cry of anguish fell from his lips. Aziraphale buried his hot face further into his pillow-hole and squeezed his eyes shut. He could smell himself, that thick, clean, damp-earth smell, and if he could, then Crowley, with her reptilian talent for picking up scents, surely could as well.

Crowley's hands tore away from Aziraphale's skin as if given an electric shock. "Aziraphale? Are you…?"

"I'm so sorry." Aziraphale tried and failed to sink through the table and disappear. He gave it a good effort, though. "I—I promised myself I wouldn't—" 

A dreadful beat of quiet followed, then: "It happens, angel. Nothing but chemicals and neurons." She laid one hand on the back of his thigh, then the other, and resumed her kneading. "No need to be ashamed of it."

Tears of frustration welled in Aziraphale's eyes and pattered, unseen, to the floor below. "Is that what it's like for you?" he asked, voice very small. "Just chemicals and neurons?"

Crowley's hands stilled. 

Aziraphale's heart followed suit.

"No," she said at last. "Not really."

He swallowed. His skin felt like it might burn away if it didn't find a balm soon. The plea was on his tongue, unwilling to tumble out of his mouth. Aziraphale, an angel through and through, never had gotten the hang of asking questions. 

Luckily, Crowley was a different story.

She lifted a hand, trailed her fingertips so very slowly up Aziraphale's leg, the barest brush under the crease of his buttock. Hovered there over the wet heat of Aziraphale's cunt. 

"Can I—?" she said.

Words were still out of reach, so Aziraphale nodded, his head rocking the table with the force of it. He lifted his face from the pillow and wiggled down a bit so he could press his cheek against the table, head turned, eyes catching glimpses of Crowley behind him in the dark.

The first touch was unexpected: the delicate lifting of the thin sheet, drawing it up to fold over Aziraphale's back as if Crowley was concerned about keeping him warm. No danger of catching a chill here, Aziraphale thought wildly; he was afire all over. He squirmed in anticipation, hips pushing hungrily into the cushion beneath him. 

"Shhh, none of that." Crowley put a hand on his waist, stilling him instantly. She nudged the bolster pillow out from under his ankles and wedged it under his hips instead so that his ass was raised a bit. Displayed, Aziraphale's vocabulary supplied. He was being arranged for display. A small moan escaped him.

"I've got you, come here," Crowley said. And she touched just the pads of her fingertips to Aziraphale's folds, featherlight. Aziraphale mashed his face into the cushion to stifle his cry. Lord Above, he was wet.

"Oh, look at you," Crowley breathed. She sounded as breathless as Aziraphale felt. Her fingers probed further, curling along his outer lips, playing in his slick. "Softer than—than anything. Velvet wishes it was soft as you, angel."

"You cannot tell me to remain still and then say such _ things _ to me." Aziraphale's legs opened wider, hopeful and trembling. He tucked his arms tight against the sides of his chest in a bid to contain his labored breathing.

A little laugh. "Sorry." She still didn't sound sorry. "Just relax, all right?" Crowley tugged gently at his plump folds, ran the backs of her knuckles up the length of his slit. Not a tease, but an exploration. "Gorgeous," she murmured. "Can't believe you don't know how gorgeous you are. All lush and ready. Every bit of you, but especially here."

Both hands worked along Aziraphale's cunt, one running up while the other went down, one cupping Aziraphale tight while the other whorled over his clit. 

"D'you like feeling something inside you?" Crowley asked. Her fingers caressed the wet, sucking heat of him, just playing at his entrance. "I don't care for it myself. S'why I ask. A little shallow dip, maybe, if I'm in the mood, nothing too deep."

"Oh…." And now Aziraphale was picturing Crowley teasing herself with just the head of a toy, and his quim dripped at the thought. "Yes, good, I— Please, inside. I'd like that." 

One slim finger petted its way into Aziraphale. The middle one; he could feel the curl of Crowley's other fingers against his slit. Her other hand formed a V that massaged along the outside, framing him, soothing. Crowley crawled onto her knees on the table between Aziraphale's legs and the added leverage made Aziraphale sigh. His body was entirely liquid, just water and warmth and the need for Crowley.

He began rocking his hips back to meet Crowley's touch, and Crowley obliged him with more of it. She pressed a thumb into the center of him, fanned out her fingers, tickled at his folds and clit, rubbed at him two-handed. The room filled with the wet sounds of his cunt being worked and the beats of their breathing.

"You're absolutely soaked," Crowley murmured. "Holy fuck. Sopping."

Aziraphale groaned, his forehead pressed into the table. 

"Tell me if this is too much." Crowley's fingers pressed deeper, her other hand drifting up, thumb placed firmly over Aziraphale's arsehole. Petting, rubbing. A good wet slide. Aziraphale shuddered with the consideration Crowley was paying him, the strange, gentle insistence. 

"Ah! It's—" Aziraphale couldn't think of a word that could encompass it, so he lay lax and let himself feel Crowley's hands working away at him. A noise of appreciation welled in his throat. Tiny spasms took over his whole body. His fingers splayed wide on the table, which moved like the ocean beneath them. Aziraphale prayed it wouldn't break, but then again, he thought it probably knew what was good for it.

Crowley crooked two fingers into the plush-wet of him, thumbs circling his fat clit and his other hole in tandem, steady, never wavering. "Come on, angel," she whispered. "Let me see you come."

Never let it be said that Aziraphale couldn't follow orders. When it suited him. 

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him, each one more powerful than the last. It seemed it would never end, that Aziraphale would be swept away by it, and it would be worth it. He jerked on the table, hips alternately chasing Crowley's touch and retreating from it. Through it all, Crowley's pace never changed and her hands never left him. She palmed his flooding cunt, thumb pressed to his clit, fingers cradled inside him. Her gasp of approval covered Aziraphale like a sheet—fitting, since it seemed he'd flung the actual sheet to the floor in his thrashing.

It was a long while before the sensations went back out to sea, leaving Aziraphale a shaking wreck under Crowley.

"There we are," Crowley murmured, her hands slowing along with him. "Come back to me. Oh, sweetheart, you did wonderfully." 

"_I _ did?" Aziraphale huffed a laugh. He couldn't even lift his head to toss a look Crowley's way. "I just laid here. You—_you _were marvelous." He remained sprawled on his stomach, trying to catch his breath. 

Crowley slipped her fingers from the clutch of Aziraphale's cunt and ran her sticky hands over his back and shoulders, down his legs, back up again. The parting stroke of a very thorough massage. 

When Aziraphale's racing heart had at last calmed enough to allow for actual speech, he rolled onto his back, feeling ungainly and damp but needing more than his dignity the sight of Crowley knelt there at the foot of the table between his spread legs. She was still fully clothed, her hair wild, her lips parted and pink. 

She licked them as Aziraphale watched. (He'd always loved watching her.) 

"Heh." Crowley ducked her head, hair spilling red as a warning over her shoulder. Really? Shyness, now? "Well then." She slithered off the table and opened the little white machine in the corner that held the hot towels, grabbing one and cleaning her hands off with it.

Aziraphale didn't understand. Crowley was miles away in the corner of the room when she should be— 

"Please," he said, sitting up, reaching toward her, "let me."

"Eh, no need." She tossed the towel into a bin. "Like I said, I don't need it to survive." The room was so small that as she moved to bustle by the table, Aziraphale did not have to go far to catch her by the wrist. Gently, he led her closer. 

"I'd like to touch you," he said, soft, "if that's all right." He lifted a hand and tucked a curl of cardinal-red hair behind her ear, the one with the silver snake. His fingertips lingered on the jewelry, and he did not miss Crowley's sharp inhale. 

"I'm afraid I want to rather badly," he said, shaky, and reached slowly between Crowley's legs, the pads of his fingers finding the spot where her leggings were soaked through. "May I?"

"Fuck," Crowley breathed. She rocked down on Aziraphale's fingers, riding along his hand.

In for a penny. Aziraphale brought his other hand to Crowley's lovely neck, fingers stroking downward until they met the tight black fabric of her wrap top. "And here?" he asked. 

Crowley arched her back in answer, and Aziraphale rushed to oblige. He pulled down the fabric to bare Crowley's breasts, small and lovely like upturned pears. Aziraphale's mouth watered. He leaned in and fit his mouth to one copper-colored nipple, sucking on it with abandon.

"Angel!" Crowley clung to him, one hand grabbing hold of his blond curls to keep his mouth where it was, the other cupping over the fingers between her legs. Aziraphale could feel the damp spot growing.

"Shall I get you out of these clothes, my dear?" Aziraphale couldn't keep from panting against her flushed skin. 

"Burn them for all I care," Crowley snarled, and began wriggling free of her top with mixed results. 

Aziraphale smiled as he helped her untangle her arms and be free of the thing. "That seems a bit much," he said, "when you can just undress."

Crowley kicked her black trainers off her feet as she struggled with her yoga leggings. "I like a bit much." Her grin was mostly teeth, sharp and eager. 

"Here, allow me." Aziraphale hooked his fingers into the tight waistband and peeled the tights down Crowley's hips. He gasped aloud when he saw a glint in the dim light and realized that a silvery thread of Crowley's slick was stretched between the crotch of her clothes and her little cunt. His hand swiped through, breaking the glistening strand, and he rubbed the collected wetness between his fingertips in awe.

"It's not—usually like this," Crowley said with a low, slightly hysterical laugh. "Behaves, most times. Fuck, what a mess."

"I like a bit of mess," said Aziraphale, and sucked his fingers into his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut at the taste; exquisite, as he'd always suspected. 

A funny sound poured from Crowley's slack lips, a sort of bitten-off yelp. "Come on, then." She wrestled her tights off her legs and climbed up onto the table. Climbed onto Aziraphale, straddling his hips, the wet line of her cunt painting a stripe along his stomach as she settled atop him. Her eyes were yellow coals in the low light, her hands gripping Aziraphale's hair with otherworldly strength. "Make a mess of me." 

Aziraphale groaned and bent his head to the task of biting and licking at her nipples, the hard little tips fitting nicely between his teeth, his tongue soothing them in turn. His hands should be occupied as well, he realized, and so he let go of Crowley's sharp hips and snugged his hands between their cunts. 

"Like this? Not too deep?" He rubbed the blades of both hands along Crowley's seam, a filthy, wet slide of skin. 

Crowley shook in his lap. Her head fell forward onto Aziraphale's shoulder, her hair making a red curtain over her face. "T-that's fine," she said.

Aziraphale tried to remember all the clever things Crowley had done when she'd touched him, but his hands were so thick and clumsy in comparison. His thumb reached up to rub at her clit, and Crowley whined into his neck, then bit him just under his ear.

"Ssssssweetheart," she hissed. 

He flushed. That was the second time she'd called him that, he noticed. He wondered if it was going to become a habit; he certainly wanted to hear it again. 

"Would you like my mouth on you?" he asked into the cascade of her hair. "Or would that be too—?" 

But Crowley was already clamoring against him, shoving him down onto his back. "Fuck yes. Fuck, please." She crawled up the length of his body like a wild thing. "Eat me out, angel. Give me your mouth." 

Aziraphale steadied her as best he could from his prone position, helped her maneuver until her dripping cunt was an inch from his face. She held there, breathing hard, legs quivering with the effort, and Aziraphale took a moment to look her over. Her pretty little lips, pale pink and wet. Her neat triangle of red curls. The sweet peek of her clit.

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale breathed against her. "Oh my…." He took hold of her trembling thighs and pulled her down to meet him. He couldn't stop his moan. To taste her like this, from the source— He buried his face between her legs and lapped at her with an unquenchable thirst. 

Crowley bit out a curse, her hands clawing at Aziraphale's hair, holding him where she wanted him as she rode his face. "Yes, just there—!"

Aziraphale sealed his lips over her clit and sucked and sucked and _ sucked, _ not letting up even when Crowley nearly screamed, her hand clapping over her own mouth to muffle it just in time.

"You're going to make me come, angel," she said between her spread fingers, "you're going to—ah!" She rocked forward, pressing herself further into Aziraphale's mouth, and Aziraphale, knowing a thing or two about idle hands, reached behind her to rub his thumb along her sloppy wet lips. He felt it when she came, her legs shaking like an earthquake had hit, her little pussy contracting against his hand, the slick dribbling out of her to patter on his chin.

Two, three..._ four _ strong pulses of Crowley's hips, and then she slid from her seat to crumple at Aziraphale's side, her face pressed into his shoulder, her breath coming in hiccuping gulps. Aziraphale took the opportunity to loop his arm over her shoulders and hold her tight to him; if she mentioned it as odd, he could always use the narrow massage table as an excuse. Can't have you rolling onto the floor, my dear, he would say.

Crowley did not mention it, and in fact snuggled closer. "That was…." She trailed off, still panting for air.

Aziraphale hummed and stroked her hair. For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were the tinny recordings of the seaside and birds. Then Crowley reached blindly along the floor for the sheet, which she swiped along Aziraphale's soaked chin before discarding it back on the ground. He squeezed her in thanks, the two of them sharing a look.

"We certainly broke the rules, didn't we?" Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley tensed against him. She didn't speak, but her eyes seemed more distressed than Aziraphale thought was warranted.

"I just hope we weren't very obvious. Or too loud," he said, patting her arm. "I would like to continue patronizing this establishment, you know."

A thin sharp nose scrunched in confusion. "Huh?"

"The sign in the lobby. I'm not entirely sure what constitutes 'hanky panky' but this probably crosses that line and then some, wouldn't you say?"

Crowley stared a moment longer before a little smile stole across her face, a rather sweet one that she hid against Aziraphale's shoulder. "Thought you might fret about bigger fish. Your bosses and mine."

"Yes, there is that." He stared up at the ceiling. Pulled Crowley a bit closer. 

She rested her cheek on the soft hill of his chest. "Something's happening," she whispered. "Something big's on the way. I don't know what, exactly, but I've heard things. The demons are restless belowdecks, like they're bracing for a storm."

Aziraphale's chest went tight. "Do you think it could be—?"

Crowley kissed him. Took him by the chin and turned his face to meet hers and just kissed him. Aziraphale stilled, then closed his eyes and kissed her in return.

When they parted, Crowley's pupils were blown, only thin rings of gold around the black. "We need to be careful," she said. "Whatever it is." 

Aziraphale gazed at her fondly. He didn't know it in that moment, but they would eventually save the world. He would pick up the phone in the middle of the night when Crowley was tasked with bringing a baby to a hospital; he would agree to Crowley's mad plans like he always did eventually; he would suggest that she be the one to play Nanny so that she could stay solidly on the womanish side of things while also getting loads of touch from their little godson. 

He would love this demon of his through it all. That was the only thing he knew for certain.

"My dear," he sighed, "kiss me again."

Crowley did, and kept kissing him even as Aziraphale rolled them over. 

He'd booked two hours, after all, and he had a notion he might extend it. 

It was important, after all, to stay limber.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
